


in death we seek devotion

by flat_teeth (onetrickpony)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 23:07:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7911124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetrickpony/pseuds/flat_teeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voldemort lives, Harry does not. In which Tom Riddle has been purposefully killing his soulmate every time they reincarnate. Kill an individual enough times, when all they want is to be cared for and loved, to be accepted—of course they will come back different. They become someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_why don’t we try again?_  
_I. tom riddle_

Tom meets his soulmate again just like the last time, on a crowded London street; the first jolt of recognition is like electricity in his veins, a wash of ice slush down his back that has nothing to do with the season.

There is a moment of fear in the child’s eyes, a flicker of horror as their gazes meet. Harry looks so small this time around, dressed in his hand-me down coat and knit hat. Tom has only grown older since then.

“You,” Harry says. “You shouldn’t be here.” And some part of Tom _knows_ that he remembers their final moments together, had most likely known his entire, short life and had hoped that it had all been a dream.

What must it feel like to see your nightmare in broad daylight?

Tom only smiles and crouches down to his level, holds out his hand to touch his cheek. His grin grows wider when Harry flinches, badly, but he doesn’t stop until his hand is cupping Harry’s childish, weeping face, turning it to the side so he can see his neck. There is only resignation on his face.

He almost expected to see bruises in the shape of his hands wrapped tightly around his throat. But there are none.

“Are you going to kill me this time?” Harry says, his voice still high and thin. The crowd around them is oblivious, parts unconsciously around them. “Why did you…? Tom?”

Some part of him had relished the anticipation of this moment, of the fatal words he’ll speak that will tear Harry’s life apart, once more.

“That depends,” Tom says, lightly, “have you finally come to impress me?” Harry jerks, eyes growing wide before he rips himself out of Tom’s grip like a wild animal. He backs away and Tom lets him, smiles at him with something close to delight, close to fury.

“Did I scare you?” Tom says, “To think I’d see you here again, Harry…but you already knew this day would come.” Harry pales at this. “It must have been written in your skin for the longest time. Aren’t you happy?”

“I hate you—”

“You don’t.”

“I hate you,” Harry spits, “how could you, why did you—“ he stops, overwhelmed by the depth of his betrayal, by the _memories_. He whispers, “What did I do wrong—I don’t know why you hurt me.”

It comes out more heartbroken than either are comfortable with and the boy’s face crumples like tissue paper.

Tom draws him in and Harry barely resists, the fire in him going out as he slumps into Tom, burying his head into his shoulder. He places a kiss on the top of his head, faintly breathes in the scent of smoke and saltwater that clings to Harry, even now.

“It’s not your fault,” Tom says, gentle. “You just weren’t good enough. But you will be.”

Harry stills. “I don’t understand.”

Tom wipes the tears from Harry’s stiff face, expression going soft. “I’m not your enemy, Harry. I do this because I want the best for you.”

In the end, Tom concludes this trial a failure. Harry is eleven years old and displays no signs of magic in this iteration, had not received a single letter or owl in his short lifespan. He is a muggle.

He makes his death quick this time, but not before obliviating him. Tom takes him out to an abandoned mining town while Harry’s eyes are still teary and dazed. He shouldn’t remember about his past lives, but Harry always surprised him in the end. For better or worse.

In the meantime, he has plenty of work left to do.

1.  
Soulmates are of a passing interest to Tom, more inconvenient than anything. Worthy of a look or two, and then carefully discarded with the rest of the spiked chocolates, anonymous love letters, and soiled uniforms that were mysteriously returned to him through owl or what have you. The last, an incendio accomplishes.

He had never been struck by the urge to bodily or metaphysically tie himself down with another individual, and the thought of being destined to meet a perfect half who has been fantasizing about you since they could read their marks and felt themselves entitled to your very being left a bad taste in his mouth.

His thoughts: profoundly violating.

He’s had a bevy of classmates to pick and choose from, if he wished. Both female and male students who have been hounding him since third year. One or two professors, if the way Slughorn’s lingering gaze indicated.

Their adoration was mostly harmless and utterly useless. They manifested in stalking, an invasion of personal space, invitations for day outings. Occasionally being treated to a pricey lunch, trinkets, and favors—useful for a student, but mundane applications.

It never really comes into the picture until one experimental afternoon that he meets the father of Orion Black, and the opportunity is too good to pass up.

He shook his hand firmly and greeted him with the words that he knew wound around his heart. Such that it would invoke passion and frenzy.

And it did.

Tom was fourteen.  
Arcturus Black III was thirty-nine.

If there were unspoken rules in regards to fate and soulmates, Tom Riddle ruined them without care.

It's easy to fake marks when there are none at all.

*

Orion Black falls into Tom’s gravitational pull almost immediately when he is young and vulnerable. He has minimal defense as an eleven year old boy, with negligent siblings already parting from him to find their friends in separate compartments. It’s still early, and some only have a few occupants, but Orion wants an empty one. 

He falls into Tom’s compartment on the train while he is getting dressed, catches the tail end of the graceful motion, a pale flash of flat stomach before it’s hidden by black fabric. The boy, a few years older, stares at Orion, amused, slim fingers working his tie into a knot.

There is no one else in the compartment.

Orion’s face flushes under his gaze and stutters, “Sorry, I, I should’ve knocked…”

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

Orion can’t come up with a response, tightly gripping his carry-on instead, only looking up when a hand is held out for him.

“Tom Riddle,” the handsome boy says, grinning. “Introductions are only right, considering you got a free peepshow.”

Orion chokes out his name, and Tom only laughs. 

Tom helps him find a compartment with other well-meaning, well-bred boys his age, some who Orion already knows and it gets easier to breathe when Tom is the one behind him, pushing a gentle hand against the small of his back.

“We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other,” Tom had said, “once you get sorted.” He smiles, a small secretive thing that has Orion staring at his mouth. “Welcome aboard, Orion Black.”

To be charmed, struck a little in love would only be natural response in this situation.  
As time passes, it only grows, and Orion finds himself confiding in this attentive, older boy. Tom is sympathetic, is perfect. He is everything Orion wants to be in the future, even if the thought of him makes something in Orion flush and flustered.

The topic of soulmates serve as two concerns for Orion: one involving his father and his relation of, the other involving Tom’s own status.

“Neither of my parents are soulmates with one another,” Orion says, “I think Mother found her’s but they had passed away before any of my older siblings were born. My father’s still looking.” He looks away briefly, before peeking at Tom. “What about you, Tom?”

“You’re getting quite bold, aren’t you.”

Immediately, Orion backpedals. Of course, he stepped out of line—why would Tom tell him anything about it when everything’s pointed to him being a private person?

He’s about to apologize when Tom leans forward, something mischievous dancing in his smirk. “I don’t mind when it’s from you, Orion. I think you could afford to be bolder, since you’re my friend.”

“Have you found your soulmate yet, Tom?”

He grins. “No, I haven’t. I’ve never really thought of looking for them in the first place.”

That astounds Orion because he’s lived his life in the shadow of his parents and his siblings, low grade misery permeating his childhood whenever his father and mother were in the same room. Tom, by all accounts, is the ideal boy to fall in love with. Perfect.

“Is it of interest to you?” Tom says, slyly. “Have you found your’s?”

“No, of course not. I’m waiting—I think, I’ll be happy when I finally meet them.” _Even if they’re not you._

“Really?” Tom tilts his head. “Even if it takes too long?”

“Yes, I’d wait for them.” 

There is something mirthful in the set of Tom’s mouth, restrained mockery. “Even if you never meet them?”

He thinks of his father.

“I’m sure it will happen one day. I have my entire life ahead of me.” It comes out less certain than he means for it.

Tom hums and then looks away, and Orion can’t help but wilt a little with his attention off of him.

“What if you despise them?”

“What?”

He repeats the question, staring back at Orion intently. “What if you hate them? What if they’re nothing like you expected?”

He has nothing to say about that. He’s eleven. He’d much more prefer to think it will work out than focus on the negative aspects of a relationship. He’s naive.

“I don’t know.”

Tom leans back into his seat, making the open vee of his shirt shift over the pale expanse of his neck and collarbones. Orion’s eyes keep drifting back to them.

“It must be hard, knowing that you’ll be destined to meet someone important to you one day, without knowing when or where—so many people feel anxious, just waiting.” Tom sighs. “I think it’s more important to pick and choose who you associate with, don’t you?”

“I think so…”

Tom chuckles. “I don’t mean to pressure you. You’re free to think whatever you like—”

“No, I agree with you, Tom.” If Tom thinks it, then it must hold some merit. “I think people are free to choose who they associate with, fall in love with.”

“I’m glad you think so, Orion.” He says. His smile is beautiful.

“Tom,” he blurts, “when do you think you’ll meet yours?”

“Hopefully? Never. I enjoy my freedom too much, I don’t wish to be tied down. Why do you ask?”

“My father’s been looking for years,” Orion says, “I think Mother knows, but doesn’t care enough to say anything. It’d be easier if his words were common—then he could be able to pretend he’s found the person. He’s too invested in them.” _What if I become like that too?_

“What are his words?”

“I don’t want to say, they’re not,” he says, flushing and looking away. “I mean—”

“I was only curious, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I should go.” Tom makes to leave, looking understanding.

“No, don’t.” Orion jumps to his feet. “You didn’t do anything, I’m just. You’re fine.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. Of course, I just, I’m frustrated, I want to tell and—”

“How’s this then?” Tom lowers his voice. “A secret for a secret?”

Orion’s stomach clenches, squirms.

He whispers. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me his. Does that sound fair?”

Orion’s hands curl in on themselves. “Yes,” he says, in a small voice. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“No one else will know.”

The desire to be close to Tom, to not disappoint him, to keep his attention on him spurs Orion to speak them into the air.

A strange lightness overcomes him as Tom smiles down at him, pleased, raised wand in hand.  
Orion blinks, disoriented.

“Tom? I’m sorry, what were we talking about?” This wasn’t like him at all, to forget his train of thought so thoroughly.

Tom shakes his head, fondly. “We were talking about soulmates, Orion. You wanted to know if spells were affected when they are casted by one onto the other. Like charms or curses.”

“Oh.” Orion doesn’t remember. “Could you repeat it? I must have trailed off.”

“Only for you, since you’re such a good friend of mine. I’m not this patient with others, you know.”

They both laugh. If Orion feels a little colder, he blames it on the changing season. 

2.  
Mulciber’s thigh brushes against Tom’s where they are seated, nearly shoulder to shoulder. Nott, who’s been silenced by a well aimed spell from Lestrange, is making do with silent huffs of air for laughter. 

They bask in the heat from the marble fireplace, where the velvet couches are gathered, pouring drink after drink of the firewhiskey Tom had procured from somewhere. 

These are the kinds of moments that Mulciber favors—something pleasant and hazy enough that he can take his mind off of having to go home on the upcoming holiday. Moments where no one has to posture or put up a front like they do in their late meetings, trying to be the first to whisper curses to life. Where no one has to hide anything.

To the right, Avery laughs at something Rosier said. Tom interjects with a joke that Mulciber can’t quite make out, but it makes even Lestrange chuckle. Mind, Lestrange has already tried some of the opium from Avery’s collection that he filched from his father.

Regardless, he can’t get over how lucky he is to be a part of this. Tom is charming when he’s sober, Tom drunk is downright magnetic. Right now, pressed shoulder to shoulder, Tom heat-flushed and gesturing with his hands at some story, he can’t help but feel a little fixated. From the looks on his friends’ faces, they can’t help it either. 

Tie tugged loose around his neck and collar unbuttoned. His hair mussed from running his fingers through it earlier instead of its normally perfect style—it feels intimate.

In all of the years they had dormed together, Mulciber can’t recall seeing soul words, or hearing any mention of a soulmate. There had been times where he was sure he saw bruises or love marks on his flesh, but they were usually gone the next day. They’re only in fourth year, most of them don’t have girlfriends.

He had asked him once, if he had a lover hidden away somewhere and the split second of rage he saw before it was overtaken by a smirk told him everything. It didn’t turn him off, though, Mulciber still holds onto the faint possibility that they're tied together, the same way a sizable portion of the student body did.

Because who wouldn’t want to be with Tom? Dependable, smart, vicious Tom?

For a moment, Mulciber indulges in a daydream, of reaching over and kissing Tom before he’s furiously struck down and ripped to shreds.

“What are you doing?” Rosier slurs.

“I’ve got a secret that I want to share,” Tom says, beckoning them closer from where he’s seated. “I’ve seen a prophecy of things to come.”

Everybody gapes.  
Tom’s face breaks out into a roguish grin and they cackle, almost believing him.

“I am completely serious,” Tom says, laughing, “and I can prove it.”

Avery sways over to sit next to Rosier, except he misses and sits on Rosier’s lap instead. He grunts at the weight, but didn’t push him off.

“Are you going to show us magic,” Nott says, wiggling his fingers.

“Shut up, I want to hear this,” Mulciber says.

“The war will end in three years.”

“What?”

“The Allies win and the Germans fall, and our blessed conspirators will be imprisoned in the cells of their own making.”

Silence. Before, surprisingly, Mulciber sniggers. The rest join in, until they are laughing uproariously. Tom tolerates it with good humor, a smug look on his face.

Tears stream down from Nott’s face from the force of his hiccups.

“It’s true.”

“How can you know that?” Lestrange says with a dark look. Lestrange liked the war even less than he liked Grindelwald.

“I have in good source that Grindelwald will fall in three years. The end of an era will be swept away for a new.”

“Just like that?”

“A huge battle I’m sure, but we all know the reason why Grindelwald hasn’t stepped foot onto British soil.”

“I don’t believe it,” Rosier says, “That old man?”

Tom nods, almost scowling. “Trust me. As much as I hate to admit it, Dumbledore will be the one.”

“I don’t know how to feel about that, to be frank.”

“Could you imagine? They’d probably try to make him Minister for that.” Mulciber says, shuddering.

“God no.”

“He could’ve become Minister anytime, you know how he’s got people wrapped around his finger. He’ll probably go back to teaching.” Lestrange spits.

“Imagine being the one who takes down the witch or wizard who defeats Grindelwald,” Tom says slyly.

“Tom, no! Are you serious—“

“Two birds, one stone,” Tom teases.

“So you’ll bring down old man Albus and then what?” Lestrange says.

“Then we’d have to clean up the mess the Wizarding Britain is left in—by then, Jones, Adler, and other politicians and representatives would’ve fled, died, or have been disgraced and unfit for office. It would be lonely at the top,” Tom says. “It’s much better to have the support of friends and allies, talented pureblooded wizards such as yourselves. Politics is infested with sharks.” He grins, bright and burning. “What do you say? Come join me?”

They had joked about this in passing, how they would change Wizarding Europe one day. Perhaps it’s the firewhiskey, the heat, and Tom’s charisma, but Mulciber’s starting to believe it. A combination of all of that and their own egos. Who wouldn’t want to believe?

“I can be something better than a seer, something more corporeal.” He says, eyes gleaming. “A visionary.”

*

And maybe the firewhiskey had been too much, the opium too agreeable, and Tom appearing strangely touchable in the gold firelight that makes Mulciber lean in to speak.

“Tom,” Mulciber says. “Did you mean that?”

“The war ending in three years, of course I meant that.”

“No, I mean, I believe you—surprisingly I believe you, I don’t know how or who is giving it to you, but your information is always right. I meant the other thing, how you’d make sure nothing gets in the way?”

“Yes. What are you getting at, Elias?”

“What if I have something that’s in my way right now,” Mulciber says, carefully. He is shaking now. “And I wasn’t strong enough to take care of it on my own?” He mumbles, “I can’t tell the school, Dippet will do nothing.”

“Then you come to me,” Tom says, eyes dark and observant. They flick towards his mouth and then up again. “What’s the matter? You can tell me.”

“I’ve tried, you need to believe me, Tom. I wouldn’t have come to you if I couldn’t help it.”

“I believe you.”

“Please, I’m not, it’s not because I’m weak.” He stops, his words stuttering and his face flushing. He exhales slowly, weak. “It’s not because I want to, you understand, don’t you?”

Mulciber flinches when warm hands cradle the sides of his face. Tom is shorter than him, and Mulciber is forced to crane his neck down. Tom’s mouth gently parts, his brows pinching in concern. His gaze is knowing.

“I understand, Elias. You know I wouldn’t think less of you,” Tom says, softly. “You’re my friend.”

And the weight that Mulciber has been living with has suddenly been charmed light, he feels as if he will levitate off the ground. Gratitude. Relief. His eyes prickle.

“I know. I just. Please,” he begs, unable to say it.

And Tom seems to get it because he’s smart. His mind is brilliant and could make all the right connections, and most importantly, he doesn’t try to brush him off like he’s a rat that’s crept out of the sewers, tainted and disgusting. He cares, even through all the filth that covers him.

“Tell me what you need,” he promises, his hands warm against his face, eyes dark and ominous.

“I need your help.”

Elias Mulciber, age fourteen, signs his fate.

*

By the beginning of fifth year, Elias’ father is hospitalized in the intensive care unit of St. Mungo’s due to a painful accident involving an ancient cursed pendant outside of Berlin. His son is declared the new Lord of the noble house of Mulciber. Strangely, his uncle refuses to act as regent, and his mother stands by the painful decision to allow him his legacy.

His mother weeps.

Elias, now Mulciber, seals off his father’s rooms and study, the shining signet ring heavy on his finger. A helpless smirk cuts his face apart. His eyes widen, darken, madly glint as it hits him. A wild ecstasy that causes his hands to shake as the man who ruined him deteriorates in some ward far away.

He will truly get away with this. He could believe in Tom. Would follow him to the ends of the earth—this boy who could make things come true with a thought and a word, could quell demons as if they were nothing.

If there had been any doubt on Mulciber’s mind, any hesitation or ambivalence, it is ruthlessly killed in this one action.

There is no other devil he could abide by, than Tom Riddle.

3.  
Tom is skilled in the magics of the mind. It was in his fourth year that he learned one of his most useful, if not favorite, spells: Obliviate.

To peer into the minds of others is good. To rip and tear and ravage, to inflict pain that left no marks and left you feeling sated when not even food or drink could fill the gap, it was wonderful.

But to make others forget? Now that was a prize. One could forget everything if they tried hard enough, and with Tom whispering the beautiful tones of the charm, wand at their temples, they didn’t have to try at all.

Even the charm sounded lovely to the ear, subtle without the harsh consonants of Aramaic or Greek spells—it is the sound of memory drowning, muffled. Arcturus fell into his arms like he was drowning and couldn’t comprehend that he needed air to breathe.

Trace over the same thoughts enough times, and it becomes familiar. Tom Riddle trails his fingers over open minds again and again, until they eventually stop flinching.

This is what he learns from Dumbledore.

On the same night he revisits the past and sees his impurities made flesh in the form of Tom Riddle Sr., Tom enters the shack of a house off Little Hangleton. He stands over the prone body of Morfin Gaunt, who raves and seizes on the floor like he is no better than a wretched animal, and coldly decides that he has no family.

To think, he had opened the Chamber of Secrets, being descended from this.

His hand is familiar with the motions, as with the rage, his mouth forming the words as the thoughts passed. Implanting memories are less difficult than killing them, he has found.

He apparates away, leaves the rest to this raving shell of a man.

4.  
A handsome face and good grades, did they ever look for anything deeper? A bribe or two, a favor, blackmail, and Tom ensures that nothing touches him. He weaves traps, he isn’t in the habit of being the one to fall in them. May of 1943 proved that when staff and officials readily slaughtered the scapegoat he set up in his place. A half-breed giant, they were more than ready to throw that one in the pyre.

They let him roam, and Tom did so.

None suspected it when he opened the Chamber of Secrets. Dumbledore’s eye fell on him with the news of a student’s death, heavy and calculating, but he could do nothing but mitigate the damage that was already done.

After the first horcrux, his raging fever makes him delirious and he confines himself in the Chamber of Secrets. His veins are scalding with magic, bubbling fire, too much and not enough as he claws at the stone floor until his fingers bleed.

The basilisk sleeps. Would be compelled to stay so until Tom whispered for it to rise again in his slow, sibilant tongue.

He doses himself in potions and poisons and waits for them to work, his heart thudding in animal panic as he feels his soul tear apart like paper.

It’s the poison that will save him.

Tom’s breath comes out in gasps through numb lips, growing quieter with each exhale. This is the beauty, the magic that courses through his veins, the madness that his soulmate will never be able to touch. It will burn through all impurity and leave behind an eidolon, something greater than man. The stone floor leeches the warmth out of him. His heart slows, the fire in him subsides. When he awakes, he will be more perfect, blank and unscathed.

Pure.

_“…even if one’s body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for the part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged…”_

_“…few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.”_

But what did Horace know, when he feared to tread too close to the edge, to call out his own name and listen attentively into the night for something to call back?

No. Tom would go farther. Would plunge until he finds the light again.

5.  
He finds unexpected pleasure in Harry. The muggle boy who knew nothing of his world and looked at him with his large, angry eyes, treated Tom like he was just another boy made of flesh and bone instead of all the components of a rising comet.

He becomes a grounding factor during Tom’s summers, where they walk the piers and through town—when half the time Tom seems like he will disappear at any given moment, Harry keeps walking as if he will not care.

It’s addicting.

Harry can’t hurt Tom, because he has no power over him. Tom can transfigure willow trees to steel beams in the seconds it takes for Harry to wrap his hands around Tom’s pale throat—could ignite Harry on fire in a passing thought if he chose to.

There is no chance of getting attached, because Harry is not the type of person you could get attached to.

Because—regardless of how calming, of how entertaining, of how unexpectedly freeing it can be to confide in some anonymous child from filthy London—Harry possessed no magic.

Harry possesses no magic, as he is now.

The thought comes to Tom, in one of his experimental afternoons. Research and academic journals pointed to soulmates as being a cyclical affair—death, rebirth, again and again. There have been documented cases of one soulmate surviving the other and then meeting the next version of them as elderly patrons and youths, or even as little as a decade later.

In the wizarding world, it seemed even more common due to the long life spans that witches and wizards could achieve—there were even subsections in magical law regarding proper conduct between reconnected soulmates. To minimize—damage, one could say.

Theoretically, it would be possible for his soulmate to come back as a witch or wizard.

Harry lays on the other side of the bed with him, sleeping, all warm skin and sprawling limbs. His eyelashes are dark and his face is gentle. Tom traces his fingers over his words, the lies that bind them together, feels something close to affection, maybe. Harry doesn’t stir.

It’s a passing thought.

*

Harry always comes back in the end, sometimes with different names or faces. It’s only fair for Tom to keep waiting.

“Do you like the sea? One of my favorite places to visit in my childhood was the seaside. Our caretaker would bring us out during the holidays. Some of the children would play a game at the cliffs, where they would balance on the edge until vertigo scared them off. On one of these games, I managed the farthest, with half of my feet hanging off, when I noticed there was a cave embedded into the sheer sides.”

And then inquisitively. “You remember it, don’t you Harry?” He peers at the latest version of his soulmate with dark eyes. “I took you there, once. The first time.”


	2. Chapter 2

_the time has passed and gone, don’t you think?_

_II. harry potter_

For Harry, they appear one after another. Tom Riddle’s words are printed in neat black script. It is the same handwriting Harry has familiarized himself with in his second year. Had carried around with him everywhere, to classes, to the Forest of Dean, had fallen asleep next to in his four poster bed.

Voldemort’s are darker. They look like someone wrote over it with a knife, carving multiple times, growing darker and more furious as they overlap.

They are both sinister.  
He doesn’t know this until later.

1.  
He has dreamt of words appearing on his flesh: his arm, his thigh, his back—anywhere that would tell him that he is loved. Dudley has one, it’s _The price of caviar has gone up, we’re not ordering that._ Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would boast that Dudley’s soulmate would be just as intelligent as them, wildly successful, disgustingly rich, or at the least had a good head on their shoulders.

They both have one, as well as most of the parents in their neighborhood, as did most of the children in his muggle primary school.

Instead, Harry is left curiously blank, and some days when he lies on the cot in his cupboard, he’ll trace first words to himself in black pen, make up stories of soulmates and escaping. They grow more ridiculous and fanciful the stormier the Dursleys get. He doesn’t realize this could be construed as pathetic until Dudley makes fun of him and gets their classmates to join in.

So Harry stops. 

The interest in soulmates diminish, only to return with ferocity when he enters Diagon Alley for the first time and sees people with words like _Ashwinder eggs will be back in stock on the fifth, come back then_ along the underside of an arm. Some are long, some short, most of them can be considered average by the wizarding population and bizarre for someone like Harry. One short witch has a simple _Episkey_ down the side of her face. 

It all sounds made-up to him. 

He is disappointed to find out that most of the wizarding population had soul marks. The lack of one was almost as uncommon as it was in the muggle world.

*

At the tender age of twelve, Harry falls in love with Tom Riddle.

Perhaps it is right to say that Harry has waited for this day in delirium, the pages of the diary crinkling in his hands from holding them so tightly. It’s easy to build up an image of a person when all you have to work with is their diary, especially when its occupant is so verbose.

Harry has imagined princesses and knights, red-haired saints, and villains as soulmates before. But now, he finds his imagination dried up—he likes to think that the owner of his diary would be a nice, down-to earth boy with a sweet smile, who he could laugh at dumb jokes with and treat Harry like he was a normal person. He couldn’t imagine someone as vain or obnoxious as say, Gilderoy Lockhart or Malfoy for a soulmate.

But then Tom ruins that illusion when he writes, “I attended Hogwarts a long time ago, Harry. I’m the memory of a sixteen year old boy—I would be different than you imagined me to be in real life.”

And then Tom says, “Once, I was a boy and could do everything that you and all your friends do. It was difficult to…adjust. But I got to meet you, so it’s worth it, Harry. Imagine being in my position—what if I waited forever, and you didn’t show? The pain I went through would’ve been for nothing.”

Harry ignores the fact that his crush must be an old man by now, if he’s even still alive. He holds on to the hope that it won’t be too bad—after all, Dumbledore is over a hundred years old. Some wizards live even longer, and still look relatively young. Hopefully, Tom will be willing to wait for him.

_“You’re quite a special person.”_

*

And that’s how it goes. He carries around Tom Riddle in his pocket, a friend he can confide in whenever.

Ron and Hermione are the best friends he could’ve ever wished for, but the thought of having something purely for himself, a secret, strikes a greedy chord in him. He doesn’t mention the diary to any of them.

One day Ron mentions how his sister is gaining her color back, has stopped being so twitchy but still shuts down whenever one of her brothers asks her if she’s okay.

“I don’t understand it at all,” Ron says at breakfast. “She was so excited to come to Hogwarts.”

“Maybe she’s having a hard time making friends. Do you think she’s being bullied?” Hermione says.

“I don’t know who’d think it was a smart idea to bully Ginny, she takes after Fred and George with her right hook, she can get downright nasty when she wants to. And everyone knows me, Percy, Fred, and George would get mad.”

“Maybe it’s a crush,” Hermione says, flicking her eyes at Harry knowingly.

And when he writes about it, Tom writes back.

“What do you think of your best friend’s little sister? She’s a shy one alright, she must like you a lot, to always mention you to her brother. Try not to break her heart, she’s a little too young for you, don’t you think.”

Tom has a habit of asking him to do strange things. Things that require him to sneak out in the middle of the night with his invisibility cloak, “Very nice, Harry. You’re a natural.” They don’t seem strange at the time—plenty of his classmates have weirder hobbies, and Fred and George are prime examples.

Tom asks him to chant his name three times with his back turned to the Mirror. It’s like playing Bloody Mary, but Tom only laughs when Harry spins around to catch a glimpse of him—he isn’t sure what he expected. He only sees a vague outline of a tall boy next to him.

“Did you think I was going to appear?” Tom writes. “No, it’s too soon for that, I was only playing a joke.”

“Why did you ask me to do it?”

“I wanted to see if you would,” and there is a specific slant to his writing that makes it seem as if Tom is smiling. “It’s a ritual that the children at the orphanage played, I wanted to see if you knew it.”

Harry becomes acquainted with the Forbidden Forest, the feeling of wet soil sinking beneath his shoes—rain heavy and fertile, dark and rich. He feels braver going out at night with his invisibility cloak, Tom’s diary tucked into his robes, a wand in hand. Harry’s been having to open the diary less and less—sometimes he can hear Tom in his ear. In the dim light, he can nearly see his silhouette beside him.

“Is this another joke, Tom? I didn’t exactly have a wonderful experience in the Forbidden Forest all the other times.”

Tom’s words drift to his ear, both bodiless and warm. “There’s a method to my madness, trust me. Follow the spiders, Harry, they’ll lead us to where we need to go.”

The spaces to his left and right feel distinctly empty. Ron and Hermione should be with him.

“Another time,” Tom concedes. “I wanted to spend some time with you in private, I get jealous knowing that they get to spend time with you whenever they want.”

2.  
This is a secret that he never tells Ron or Hermione, or even Ginny, even if she had been there with him, lying cold, unconscious.

The Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets never tries to kill him until he makes the first move. He looks at Harry with hungry eyes, had come so close to brushing his incorporeal fingers over Harry’s face, that he could nearly feel the slight shifting of air that exited from Tom’s ghost like lungs.

“I was so anxious to finally meet you again, Harry. You are perfect.”

It sears into his skin, and Harry knows that this isn’t the end.  
But Ginny lays only a little whiles away, curled around a plain black diary, and Tom has no intention of letting her go alive when he is so close to becoming flesh and blood again. 

3.  
“There was something in this diary,” Harry says, eyes red and haggard. He looks too exhausted to be twelve years old, but maybe that’s because of the blood. They should’ve cleaned him up first. “There was a part of Lord Voldemort inside, and professor, I think he was mine.” Harry looks up at the aged, ashen face of Dumbledore and repeats, “I think he was mine.”

4.  
Even after Tom Riddle, his words begin to carve themselves into his skin. The places that he had once dreamt of bearing soul marks, become tainted. There are marks along the expanse of his ribs, others twined around a bicep. While the hushed words of _You stand, Harry Potter, on the late remains of my father_ curl delicately to peek over the collar of his robes.

That one had been the worst.

“The one time you come back, halfblooded and finally worthy of my attention,” Voldemort spoke, lowly, covetous. “And you conspire against me.” He switched to parseltongue and his followers shifted, disturbed. _“However, I am patient, Harry. If prophecy is against me I am willing to wait for your rebirth.”_

His fingers were bloodless and cold, and his touch made Harry’s scar shriek in pain, trailed a numbing fire across his throat.

And then—

Fate conspired once more. The skin of his neck was thin and burning, the specters of his dead family and Cedric coiling out to protect him in a shower of sparks. He grabbed Cedric’s body and the goblet, port-keying back to the awaiting, overjoyed crowd of spectators only for the music to stop and festivities to burn down.

Voldemort’s red eyes had stared at him, raked his fingers over the marks and laughed almost fondly, as if to say, _Of course, you would, Harry Potter. Only you. This must be our fate._

It’s not enough to have a scarred forehead, even this has to be claimed by him.

The words appear and appear, and Harry dreads. Feels himself blot out as more versions of Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort lay claim to him, frozen in time and soul-bound toxicity.

*

When Harry finally confesses, Hermione is terribly sympathetic. She looks at him with wounded eyes and says, “We’ll fix this, this doesn’t have to mean anything. I’m sure I can scrounge up some research that’ll give us an advantage…” even as the expression on her face says she’s out of her depth.

Ron makes up for his loss with a forced self-assurance that says black is white, magic is might. “He doesn’t get to keep you, Harry. Fuck that bastard, you deserve better than this. He doesn’t get to win, we’re not letting him.”

They both say, “We’ll take care of it, Harry.” And it sounds a little more like _We love you. Please don’t do this alone._

Neither Ron or Hermione let him wear the locket, even when they both appear more haggard for it. The horcrux of Tom Riddle’s diary and Voldemort had left enough marks on him already, and Harry takes to wearing turtlenecks and scarves, not only because it’s cold, but the feeling of his marked skin touching air feels too much like tempting fate.

Instead, Voldemort comes to him, visits him in his visions as if to make up for it. It’s a melding of emotions, long buried memories, all of them melting and fading translucent like caramel. It’s clogging. These are the moments where Harry is unsure as to where he ends and where Voldemort begins.

They are soft. Ingratiating. Addicting. His mind is open and Voldemort trails his hands over them, lovingly, digging his fingers into the delicate folds of his brain. They swirl together like watercolors, composed of disembodied hands, skin, hair, lips on his neck. Heat. And mocking laughter against his throat, reverberating. 

He hasn’t had dreams about him like this since he was twelve.

He trembles awake in a cold sweat, eyes blank and wide as they focus on some point that will anchor Harry—the canvas of the tent’s ceiling, the sleeping bodies of Ron and Hermione, the crackling lamp. He goes soft in minutes, terror overtaking any kind of confused arousal.

He spends minutes, his consciousness drifting back into himself. All the things that make him Harry without the horcrux. Inevitably, his fingers trail over his marked skin. His ribs. His bicep, the thin flesh over his collarbones. 

Feels claustrophobic in his own skin.

Repeats to himself that he is awake, awake. Until it is an anthem, a heartbeat. 

When they finally find the sword of Gryffindor buried under a sheet of ice, Hermione is asleep in their tent, exhausted, and Ron had stormed off from the prolonged exposure of the locket, snapping that he would be back soon.

He follows the fading light of a beautiful patronus to where he needs to be and—

_Awake, awake._

The sensation of water covering him clicks home, makes something that has been teetering on edge for years settle. The air bubbles from his lips and he’s struck with this image. His hands reaching towards the surface, body thrashing under the weight of frigid water, a teenage Tom smiling over him as he dunks Harry’s head into the water, strangles him. Familiar.

_“Why don’t we try again?”_

Tom’s locket is wrapped around his neck like a lifeline, crooning, warm.  
Until it isn’t.

And Harry is choking up freezing water, yanked back to life. He curls in on himself, weeping. Ron stands over him, one hand around his bicep, the other tightly gripping the handle of the sword of Gryffindor—both of them terrified and drenched. 

The locket bursts open and Tom flows out like a vision, all black robes, handsome face twisted into rage and longing and—

5.  
The diadem does not scream nearly as loud as the locket. Instead it falls into the fiendfyre and the roar is deafening, shaking the room down.

The horcrux in Hufflepuff’s cup barely has a chance to speak one word before Hermione slashes the basilisk fang down, denting the metal so hard that it becomes fundamentally worthless—just another relic to the past. It oozes black liquid and then the whispers quiet.

6.  
The history between them is written in starts and stops. Historians had a tendency to draw conclusions between two events and call it foreshadowing. Romanticists and poets will say it as well, that lives are interconnected, that events in time are not drawn in a line or a plane—but a circle. History is circular.

If Harry is doomed to repeat his deaths, to go unloved and fail, then he finds in himself what is left behind after love is drained. He will trap Voldemort in a circle of his own making if he must.

He presses the snitch to his lips and murmurs, “I am about to die.”


	3. Chapter 3

_we fell in love with ghosts of each other._

_III. voldemort_

He sees Harry in his periphery these days, in glimpses, in faces in the crowd—a phenomena that could be attributed to guilt or loneliness. 

His followers walk on eggshells as if he will sic Nagini on them at a moment’s notice. It’s entertaining. People who get to enjoy the spoils of war must constantly balance on their toes. Even now, they fear him more than they adore him.

His hands ache to draw him close, to drag through his wild, black hair and feel his warm body. Harry has not aged a single day since his death. Nagini who stays close, does not notice anything off, and this is what convinces him that he’s going mad.

Harry comes and goes and Voldemort does nothing to stop it, it would be as useless as caging smoke. His hallucinations are benign—Harry ignores him mostly, the way an indifferent pet might. He prowls his rooms, occasionally stopping to look at whatever catches his interest: books, the Daily Prophet, photographs. Once, he had caught Harry watching with unblinking eyes, quietly seated in the corner of the ottoman. The effect was strikingly similar to what Nagini did.

“Harry,” Voldemort calls out, softly. None will bother him, they had learned to adjust to his habits, his conversations with invisible guests. His fury at being interrupted by a concerned follower the first time stonewalled any further attempts after it landed a trip to St. Mungo's. 

Harry does not respond.

He pours himself another glass of whiskey. His joints are beginning to ache and his skin is no longer as untarnished as it had been since Wormtail had retrieved him from the graveyard. He needs to form a new body soon, perhaps possess one.

“Are you speaking to me today?”  
Nothing. Voldemort tries to not let disappointment show. Harry never speaks to him.

“I admit, I do miss your fire. You used to infuriate me, even when we were schoolboys. Everyone is too afraid to talk to me these days, of being disrespectful,” Voldemort says, almost fondly. “It’s become boring.”

Harry shoots him an irritated look, brows drawn down, as if to ask what he expected him to do about it.

He chuckles. “Touchy. I’m just reminiscing of our better days.”

The apparition reaches out and drags a finger along the rim of the glass—if he closed his eyes, he could imagine the soft, bell like sound of a glass harp.

But that wouldn’t happen, he could hardly imagine how he would feel if this ghost was real—if it breathed, and spoke, and touched. He reaches out to grasp him, and the spirit fades, Harry looking at him as if betrayed.

1.  
The disgraced Lucius Malfoy keeps his post through his wife, who’s social maneuvering barely saves them and his son. He’s nowhere near to being favored in the Inner Circle, but he is still a part of it. If his Lord had been more mercurial, Lucius would’ve been struck dead by Nagini like Severus.

He sees things and says nothing, a practice that helps maintain his precarious position. The Death Eaters are all composed of backstabbing, groveling, social climbers. But he confides in his wife, sometimes, when Draco is away. Her occlumency shields are more effective than Lucius’ could ever hope for—perhaps that’s what happens when one grows up with Bellatrix Lestrange for a sister.

When he confides in Narcissa about their Lord’s recent strange habits, she stills. One never knew when a strange habit would turn into a village being burned down as an example. 

“Perhaps we should take a vacation,” she says, lowly. She calls for a house elf to begin packing their essentials. Her dark eyes flick towards Lucius’, knowing. “It would be good for Draco to…travel.”

He knows she’s thinking of Greyback.

“Somewhere balmy,” he suggests, keeping his tone light. Some of the luggage is already floating down the stairs. He watches it. “We may have to pack more, the weather is much nicer there.”

“Of course,” she says. “We never know how much we’ll like it there—we might just want to stay.”

Her touch is warm on his arm, even now he is grateful that she is here with him. Narcissa’s hand is trembling, faintly and he draws her closer. Abraxas Malfoy watches them sadly from his portrait.

“There, there. Things will be fine,” Lucius says, and the words hang stagnant in the air, false and paper like. “You’ll see, we’ve made it this far. We’ll see this to the end as well.”

2.  
He sees the silhouette first, the breadth of his shoulders and lines of his body highlighted by the backdrop of the city. Harry’s back is to him, leaning on his elbows as he peers at the glistening city in the horizon.

Few people seemed to pay attention to him with the charm in place. They would much rather nervously toast their drinks with intoxication as their end goals tonight.

Every step is mechanical, his eyes never leaving Harry’s back, coming closer until he stops at the iron-wrought railing.

It’s been too long since he last saw him. 

“There are many people in Versailles today,” Harry murmurs.

Voldemort’s hands twitch.

“They came for the celebration,” he says, belatedly. “The treaty was a success; every witch and wizard of note is here, grateful for the opportunity to grasp at their fifteen minutes of fame.”

The apparition hums. “And has any of them caught your attention?”

“None,” Voldemort says, staring at him intensely. “They’re not you.”

He laughs at that, smooth and melodic. He doesn’t remember ever hearing Harry laugh.

“We’ve met before,” Harry says, “do you remember me?”

“How could I forget? You’re all I think about these days.”

A snort.

“You should spend your time thinking about how you’re going to fix this world.”

“It’s not broken.”

“Maybe not for you.” Harry turns. The sight of him makes something in him unravel, imperceptibly. Every detail of him is correct, in the scar, in the way his hair fell, down to the copy of his round glasses. His soulmate in the flesh once more. So close.

“Well done. A charm? Polyjuice potion? I’m assuming your compatriots are in the wings with an assassination attempt at the ready.” The words settle him. The image of Harry is too perfect, too real to be another hallucination, it only makes sense for there to be an actual human underneath. 

He waves a languid hand. “I’m alone.”

“A scout, then. Regardless, I commend your organization’s foolishness to send someone looking like Harry Potter.” 

Not-Harry laughs. “I’m the real deal.” He stops, before looking at Voldemort strangely, and amends. “Or maybe I’m not. It gets harder to figure what’s real and not-real when I’ve been stuck like this. More so when it’s with you.”

All the other guests have drifted back inside, leaving them the only ones on the balcony.

“Why are you here.”

“I want answers,” Harry says.

“Why tonight?”

Something gleams in Harry’s eyes. “Why not tonight? Perhaps I wanted to do this while you were alone and everyone else was too caught up in their celebration; there’s a certain mood that comes with feeling like an outsider looking in. Or maybe I just wanted to do this with France as my backdrop—sounds perfectly dramatic enough, don’t you think?” He wiggles his brows.

Voldemort laughs, disbelievingly. “You do have a tendency to engage in histrionic displays. Perhaps you should’ve gone into theater, instead.”

“But then who would be the hero to your villain? You need someone just as dramatic and showy as the antagonists—or else the audience gets bored and gets up in the middle of the second act.” He pauses, giving Voldemort a sly look. “What was it that you said? You needed someone worthy of your attention.”

He says nothing.

Harry turns back to the city, leaving his face a half-lit profile. “I’ve gotten your attention now.”

“What do you want.”

“I’ve told you. Answers.”

He clenches his hands so hard his knuckles whiten, the railing shifting beneath them. Harry ignores them. “Then ask them and leave—I don’t have time to waste on ghosts.”

“That’s not true,” Harry croons, “you have just enough time for me.”

“I should kill you for your audacity. I’ve killed you for much less.”

“But you won’t, not today. Why would you when you’re just starting to believe that I might be real? And I know you like it when I give you a challenge, you love it when I talk back.” His voice softens. “Do you hate me? Be honest, I’m trying to understand how you could kill me so many times without feeling anything.”

“So the memories have finally started drifting down.”

“How many times have you killed me? I can’t remember all of them, but I know you do. You always do.”

“A half-dozen, probably. After a while, they all start to blur.” Tom tilts his head. “But the first time was significant, I remember that.”

“When you drowned me in the cave.”

“Yes,” Tom says, softly. “1944. It was by the seaside that I mentioned. It hadn’t snowed yet.”

“I visited it. The first time we were looking for your locket, but I went back again after.”

“Did you?” Tom says, looking pleased.

“Yes. The Inferi were terrible.”

Tom laughs. “Consider it a gift.”

“I was looking for my body.” 

Tom’s laughter stops. He stares at Harry. “And did you find it?” He says, lightly.

“No, it was impossible to. The lake was too deep and I doubt I would’ve found it even if I had the time to fish through all the bodies.”

“Your body would’ve decomposed by then, you would’ve only left a skeleton behind. Did you look for your bones, Harry? Did you want to see the proof in your face of my deeds, so you could finally convince yourself of who I am?”

“Maybe I just wanted closure. I already know you’re barely a human being.” He says. “Part of me even wondered if you preserved it, but I thought it was too morbid for even you.”

“I was too young at the time.”

Harry cracks a grin, even as his eyes deaden.

“You drowned me. Did you feel anything the first time? I want to know what it must be like to kill your soulmate with your own hands.”

“Curiosity. Relief, maybe.” 

He waves off Harry’s bemused grin, his form shaking with maybe fear, or maybe rage.

“I’ve come across many iterations of you, Harry—in the end, you were all the same. Too trusting by far, too desperate to be loved, and you fell for me. Every. Time. Your second iteration was perhaps the most wary—you came back a child, but with memories, and even then you crippled under—”

“Stop.”

“—and you still, to this day, want me. I can see it in you, some part of you still rails against all of the pain, the horror. You want to believe in me.”

“What would you have done if there wasn’t a prophecy? You called me perfect, once.” He shoots back.

“Imagine that. The one time you’re worthy of my notice, and I feel an active prerogative to murder you.”

“Your horcruxes tell a different story. They were all very pleased to meet me.”

“They wanted to see if their hypotheses were true—and they were. Don’t forget, I’m the one who finally made you special.” He grabs Harry, wrenching him forward. “How many times were you a worthless muggle? At least six lives. Displaying no signs of magic, until finally, this life.”

“Devoted, aren’t you?” Harry says, throatily.

Their faces are only inches apart. Harry’s pupils are blown wide, his expression eager.

A hand touches his face, real and hot. Voldemort’s eyes flicker at Harry, taking everything in. He grasps the hand tightly enough he can feel the bones creak.

“Don’t mistake this for love, Harry,” he sneers.

“No, I’m taking it for what it is. Obsession.”

“This is not—” 

An arm wraps around his neck, brings him down before he can finish his thought. Harry’s mouth brushes against his, all soft, yielding heat. When was the last time someone deigned to kiss him on the mouth? Had approached him so boldly? Tom curls an arm around the small of Harry’s back—this impostor, this ghost—one hand still wrapped around Harry’s fragile, creaking one. 

His touch is electric. He hasn’t felt this alive in a long time.  
Harry pulls back and Voldemort feels the loss acutely. Harry rests his forehead against his. He stares at him. 

"Why did you do that?" 

"Testing a hypothesis," Harry says. “You’re so quiet now, I can barely hear you these days.”

“Maybe you’ve grown deaf.”

“Maybe.”

“Are you even real?” Voldemort confesses, “I can’t tell. I see visions of you nearly all the time.”

“Do you regret any of that?”

“I can’t. I’ve come too far for regrets. There was never the option of going back.”

Harry stares at him and disentangles from his embrace. Like this, Voldemort can almost see the dim light filter through his hair, his skin, his clothes.

“Would you have killed me if you knew I had been your horcrux?”

And like that, all heat vanishes to be replaced with terror. 

“Liar,” he breathes. “I have never made you a horcrux, there had never been a moment where this could have happened.”

“You must’ve known there was something between us, that went beyond being soulmates.” Behind his glasses, his eyes look dead. His mouth is stuck in that strange grin of his. “But it hardly matters now, does it.”

The door to the balcony clicks.

Voldemort lets go, the charm melting off of him until he is a pale, tall monolith again. 

Rabastan Lestrange steps onto the balcony and respectfully bows. “My lord, it’s nearly time for the ending speech.”

“Yes, I will be right there.” 

“My lord? Is everything all right?”

“Is there something you’re trying to imply?” He says, narrowing his gaze. “Leave me, Rabastan.”

“Of course, sir.”

He is alone, pulse racing, not even the fading warmth in his hands feel real now. Harry is gone, as if he had never been there in the first place.

3.  
There are those who worship Voldemort as a god. They are delusional, too ready to believe in their own lies. He is the devil at the end of the story, whose presence alerted the readers that no, the hero does not win their happy ending.

But Dolohov is grounded in magic and history. He does not need horror stories to keep him up in the nights. He has seen them firsthand. He is not like Lady Bellatrix, whose devotion towards their Lords endows her with a manic force—no rebel had been able to kill her yet and she goes out on more raids than any of their members.

He knows that their Lord is simply a man. And that is why he is so terrifying. He is not a god, or a demon, or anything but a mercurial, capricious man whose power partly comes from compelling people to believe and fear his name—he has shrouded himself in myth until people buy it.

And it works. The belief is permeating, the longer one stays around their Lord, the more they start to believe, the more likely they become fervent to his cause. People get swept up in his power every day. Even he himself has to be careful not to get swallowed up.

So when Dolohov enters his Lord’s office, news on the latest rebel movement on his tongue, the words die before they reach his lips. His Lord’s chair is kicked over, and he stands looking at something that Dolohov cannot make out, face filled with fear and reverence.

Cautiously, he steps closer until he catches sight of _reality shifting._  
Standing in front of the opened window is the cloaked figure of Harry Potter.


	4. Chapter 4

_this is where we wake up._

_IV. death_

The resurrection stone glows dimly in Hermione’s hands. She contemplates turning it over, in summoning Harry, but she doesn’t. Not when they are this close to the end. Ron stands, a solid pressure to her right, and Kreacher to her left.

They had retrieved the Invisibility Cloak a few nights after Harry’s funeral—they had nearly been caught, and Hermione knew Voldemort had raged at their audacity, nearly as bad as when Bill, Ginny, and Luna had broken through the wards and stolen Harry’s body a few months ago.

“Let’s go,” Ron says, drawing her away from Harry’s old room. “They’re waiting for us at the Shell Cottage. Remus, Tonks, and Malfoy are already there.”

“There’s no going back now,” Hermione says, quietly. “You ever stop to think about how it got to this point?”

“Oh, every day. I think about six impossible things that we’ve done in the past year alone. And then I think about the six more impossible things we’re going to do when Harry comes back.”

Hermione thinks about her parents coming back and remembering her. Some day soon.

“Masters, they are coming soon,” Kreacher speaks, large bulbous eyes flickering between them. “We must leave now.”

Hermione gives one last look at the room. She and Ron hold onto each other.  
With a _pop_ , all three disappear.

**Author's Note:**

> i almost named this 'even lovers drown' hahHAHA  
> im a week late
> 
> please check out these amazing artists, they nearly killed me with their works. thank you so much for all the hard work you did!
> 
> https://xsweetcake.tumblr.com/post/149219418843/tomarry-big-bang-2016-kill-an-individual
> 
> http://xcloudychocobo.tumblr.com/post/149309143079/wasnt-sure-which-one-i-liked-better-%E3%83%84


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